Unconditional duty, not unconditional love.
I’d keep you up longer but I have no more stories to tell.
The morning after, I asked you to forget what I teared over.
I hate you and how we’re stuck.
This fucking thing of ours, ay?
I’m a made man, still just your soldier.
Supreme
Domestic affairs and foreign policies.
Thankful for the motivation,
but resentful for the desperatation.
A dissertation against the lease.
Old children disguised as adults —
Survive the hood and die in hollywood.
Barcelona nights in Queen St,
Hiding my addiction in K rd.
Cola suede candy canes,
Seldom we speak the love many seek.
Polos from tokyo.
Scratching my head about this city’s view that made you leave for another.
This cultural canvas could be any colour you like; instead we trade paint like cars crashing.
A restrained simplicity.
Donald Byrd said life’s a wind parade.
Loran’s dance could either be Idris Muhammad’s or Grover Washington Jr’s.
Do I Do
The nights looped for a weekend.
“this dies here, right?”
this was the end.
3AM at Mangere Bridge,
raised by these streets,
not the village.
Keep an asterisk
if the cops ask bout what the people pitch;
pigs destroy and rebuild the country with bricks;
dying in the living room
doomed to smoking room benches
servin’ fiends hand-in-hand in the trenches.
bounce remixes of Aaliyah took us back to New Orleans.
New ordeals.
Isabelle
I felt my face melting,
I held on to the clay of skin and flesh.
Tar in my glasses and cups;
tar in my fingertips;
tar on my lips.
spanish guitars strummed through the hum of summer breezes,
and accompanied puddles of the night-sky cry.
Sometimes I miss my depression.
Other times I just miss her.
A dichotomy of my young adulthood;
a thirst to leave this city
from a drought of time and money.
I want war (BUT I NEED PEACE).
Thursdays in town,
watching the quiet of Nelson St from the 6th floor balcony of her apartment.
Memorabilia from bygone eras and mediums;
I keep at the expense of being out of touch with modern times.
Observing romances slowly burn away,
while the peace and prosperous affluence of my youth crumble to vices and time.
CDs and heartbreak.
Cheap wine and overdrafts.
WOF
The American device to portray cultural ideals; freedom in solipsism – the theory that holds self can know nothing but its own; egocentricity and recklessness; materialism worshiped as artistry; masculinity rewarded from physical labour and monetary investment. Above all, transience. Cars were exactly that to me, and my brother’s 1989 Toyota Celica was metaphorical of our push-pull relationship. He passed it off to me as a beater I could use for Highschool, I couldn’t really drive it at the time due to my license restrictions, but I took it anyways because it was free, and the headlights popped-up. I was so in love with that feature of the car, it reminded me of the AE86 from Initial D, and all the funky street/drift-cars you’d see in Japanese media. My brother didn’t really think his Celica would last a couple more years, but I managed to make it last ’til my 3rd year of University.
I was conservative and disciplined about the car; I only took it out to do things I needed to, or really wanted to. Money was tight for me, so I couldn’t nonchalantly pay for gas, risk blowing out any parts or damaging it. I’d often take public-transport before I considered driving. On the other hand, my brother liked to always drive; he’d waste his paycheques on project cars he had parked on our family’s driveway, infringement fees, speeding tickets and gas. The independence of being out on the road reminds him of his individuality, I found mine through other means. We lived different lives, and we often tolerated each other for the family’s sake; the Celica was merely another indicative point that juxtaposed us.
Formative years of my young-adulthood transformed the Celica from just a car I inherited from a souring relationship with my brother, to a time-machine I used to create new memories, and a confessional booth I shared some of my most intimate reflections in. I drove it with my friends to spots around the city we’d chill in, watching the moon and sun slip in-and-out of skies. I drove it to meet up with my ex ,and go on escapades or dates; car sex isn’t great, but the teenage-fever heightens the feelings to the point you think of the experience fondly. I drove it to run errands, like picking-up things I bought off Trademe because I was too stingy to pay courier-costs. I drove it to go to work and uni when I needed the extra half-an-hour to sleep in, something public-transport couldn’t afford me from where I lived.
When my ex and I broke up, there were many nights I drove to empty parking lots and listened to music alone. Anita Baker’s “Caught Up In The Rapture” and “Giving You The Best That I Got” saved me from losing my mind at the time. Michael Jordan cited the latter as the pregame-ritual song that helped him make 44 points and the game-winning shot to clinch the series in game 5 of the 1989 playoffs vs. The Cleveland Cavs, the same year the Celica I drove was from.
I never bothered investing myself to learn more about cars other than the basics my dad taught me and a few tips my brother told me, but when the Celica finally bombed on me and I had to let it go, there was a deep remorse I felt for not taking better care towards the end of its life, nor understanding more about what went wrong with it. My Brother told me he was surprised I made the Celica last that long, then asked me what car I was looking to get next; I asked if I could purchase something just like that from him but he wasn’t willing to part ways with any of his cars just yet. Perhaps in a silent way I realised the essence of what facisnated my brother so much to cars; seat-belts were restraints, rear-view mirrors showed distance, steering wheels and tires were the spinning-cycles, the roads were pathways, the engine was our livelihood and body, and the speeds we drove were merely our approach, attitude or discipline.
By-law
The 24/7 traffic of South East Asia
and the empty 4AM motorways of Auckland;
both my homes and vacations.
Farrah talked me outta leaving the city when Malcolm left
‘You can’t forget your people then expect them to remember you’
I told my father I’d go to jail after my degree
just to show him the dichotomy of my life here.
Our summer songs kept us warm all winter long
til autumn came and she left for spring.
Nike slides and busted rides with the boys,
a uniform for our unification.
We played the field like toys
‘That’s why your hometown burned while you chased her love’
temperature raised like a heatstroke
rebirth and climax with the deep-stroke.
I comply by the law
although the cops lie
I saw
brothers die
for a hand in the piece of the pie and land.
‘Take the sawed off or the sword’
words we swore to the world for a massacre,
then proceed to let mass occur.
Couldn’t take nothin for granted
because we had nothin handed.
Run It Back
Blue trains and orange skies.
Last year was strollin’ in the Myers Park rain with Lyric,
and spending the summer with Phoebe;
a template I repeated for the latter half of the decade.
The black saint is back to paint this town purple and gray.
We pulled the fire alarm on the whole building just to spite the neighbours.
Reminiscing on stolen bikes and funerals;
legacy and family;
individuality and masculinity;
ambition and materialism;
reviving the midnight club with our speed; only for our pace to disband us again.
Burning out the disco with dancehall and riddim was my favourite pastime;
pursuing the fleeing passion was like falling in love with the last person I thought I’d ever,
or living for the love of someone who keeps you waiting in vain.
late nights with friends,
and early mornings by myself
— it was all a precursor to New York, or maybe Paris, Tokyo.
I wanna be where you are, but this time let me tell you where I’m at.
Adidas Superstars
35mm, 50mg.
6:30am, no TV.
Quick fixes in clouds of struggle trees
and spilled clothes on our floors.
The sunrise on your roof was nice
til we had to get down and deal with the rosters.
Sunsets faux pas our resets.
life’s a case study,
this city is a classroom,
we’re both apathetic to principles
and 2 bottles from being alcoholic.
If I told you I was restoring the feeling,
I’d be saying it died
so I’m running errands to pay homage.
Antinomy
Nothin ever changes so now we’re back to being strangers.
My age is a lifetime here.
we move in different directions,
but the chase is mutual.
I cant deny what he wants from u.
my masculine armour rusts in this love and lust,
but if this hasn’t broken me yet,
I guess nothing will.
If I can stand what I feel,
why am I falling?
Soap operas in the 275,
Can’t knock the hustle
ATCVU 